On the world-famous physicist's 127th birth anniversary, a former general manager of Bhilai steel plant recalls his association with the legend.

In April 1958, S Narayan was a young metallurgist teaching at the Indian Institute of Science in Bangalore while he waited to be called up to work on a grand new steel plant in Bhilai. He was poring over lecture notes in his department one day, when a man in a turban and hands tugging at the lapels of his coat was suddenly standing before him. Narayan was more than a little surprised to see that it was the world famous physicist CV Raman who had come to see him.

“Are you free now? Can you come with me for a while?” Narayan recalled him asking.

Raman won the Nobel Prize for his work on scattering of light in 1930, a year before Narayan was born. Now Raman needed Narayan’s help. He needed someone who knew Russian.

Narayan had just returned from Russia the previous winter. Having completed his bachelors degree from the Bangalore institute, Narayan became one of 50 engineers selected to work at Bhilai, a one million tonne steel plant that India was building in collaboration with the Soviet Union. Soon, Narayan was on his way to Russia to train at the Zaporozhye steel factory (now in Ukraine) on the banks of River Dneiper. The metallurgist was armed with a few words and phrases from a Russian language primer by Nina Potapova. The rest he picked up through immersive learning while working in Zaporozhye and studying at the University of Moscow.

When he returned to Bangalore, Narayan was the only person who could solve Raman’s problem. The Nobel laureate had just been conferred the first Lenin Peace Prize for “outstanding services in the struggle for preservation and conservation of peace”. Congratulations were flooding in. He had received several letters from Soviet scientists written in Russian that he wanted to reply to.

Raman took Narayan back to his office at the Raman Research Institute, which was down the road from the Indian Institute of Science’s department of metallurgy.

Narayan at his Bangalore home in 2015.

Narayan recounted how that first meeting went.

I have got all these letters that are all written in Russian. I can’t make head or tail of them. I want to reply to them. Can you help me?” Raman asked.

“I think I can,” said Narayan.

“You can take two weeks,” said Raman.

“I don’t need two weeks. I can take the weekend and by Monday you will have the replies,” said Narayan

“So soon?” said a surprised Raman.

“I know Russian very well. It’s not that difficult,” replied Narayan, who could think of no better way than to spend his weekend than help India’s most formidable scientific brain with his correspondence.

Raman's roses

Narayan returned on Monday with replies and as a secretary set about dispatching them, Raman took Narayan to his rose garden.

“He had tended perhaps the best rose garden I has seen. At that time he had grown about 200 varieties of roses. There were black roses and varieties I had never heard of, never seen, even though I had visited many botanical gardens,” said Narayan who was happy with such a reward for his services.

But Raman had another request of the young man. He now wanted to learn Russian and asked Narayan to teach him.

Raman asked Narayan to come to his house every morning before starting work. The house, a bungalow named Panchavati surrounded by a sprawling mango grove in the heart of Malleswaram, was walking distance from where Narayan himself lived. And so the lessons began. Narayan used the same Potapova primer to teach Raman basic Russian.

“He evinced a very keen interest, like a Gurukul student of old. Every day he would do his homework and repeat his lessons back to me,” said Narayan. Even though Raman was 60 years old and Narayan only 27, the older man liked to maintain the teacher-student relationship. As payment for the lessons, Narayan would get to sit down with Raman and his wife for a breakfast of hot coffee and idlis.

Soon, Russian was rolling off Raman's tongue. Dobroe utro, he would say to Narayan, wishing him a good morning. Then he would address the younger man as gaspadin. No, no – Narayan would correct Raman. Gaspadin is to imply great respect while appropriate title for a regular acquaintance is comrade.

“The lesson part of it was only 30-40 minutes, the rest of it was just gabbing about this and that,” Narayan said. “He had picked up conversational Russian and would sometimes use it to tease his wife.”

Russian, in a Tamil accent

Towards the end of almost 100 morning lessons, Raman received an invitation to travel to the USSR to receive the Lenin award and address the Russian Academy of Sciences. Raman was determined to give the address in the Russian language.

“There came the problem,” said Narayan. “Dr Raman had a very strong native Tamil accent. Every Russian word he would pronounce with this heavy Tamil accent and it didn’t sound like Russian at all.”

So Narayan prepared Raman’s speech and recorded the lines for his student to listen to, memorise and repeat. The speech consisted of a few short sentences consisting of words that would not be difficult to pronounce. Raman, however, insisted that it include some messages – that he was honoured by the award given to him against the intentions of scientists in non-Communist countries; that the award was a great honour to not just him but also his homeland.

The speech was a success. In her biography of Raman, writer Uma Parameswaran notes that “after thanking the presenters for recognizing India as a sincere champion of peace, he went on to say that he regretted that advancements in physics were being used to manufacture weapons of destruction. He went on to say that Japan had experienced the power of this weapon… but those who created the weapon failed to take note of the fact that other countries too could develop this weapon and that they themselves could fall victims to similar or more terrible trials”.

When Raman returned from his tour of Russia and Europe, he called Narayan, thanked him for his help and asked whether they could continue their lessons. But 1958 was coming to an end and Narayan was being summoned to Bhilai where the steel plant was soon going to be inaugurated. Narayan went to Bhilai in January 1959 and worked his way up over the years to become general manager but never had the chance to speak to Raman again. “The next time I came to Bangalore Dr Raman was no more and the family had moved from Panchavati.”

The national emblem of India; an open parachute and crossed lances – this triad of symbols representing the nation, excellence in training and valor respectively are held together by an elite title in the Indian army – The President’s Bodyguard (PBG).

The PBG badge is worn by one of the oldest cavalry units in the India army. In 1773, Governor Warren Hastings, former Governor General of India, handpicked 50 troopers. Before independence, this unit was referred to by many titles including Troops of Horse Guards and Governor General’s Body Guards (GGBG). In 1950, the unit was named The President’s Bodyguard and can be seen embroidered in the curved maroon shoulder titles on their current uniforms.

The President’s Bodyguard’s uniform adorns itself with proud colours and symbols of its 245 year-old-legacy. Dating back to 1980, the ceremonial uniform consists of a bright red long coat with gold girdles and white breeches, a blue and gold ceremonial turban with a distinctive fan and Napoleon Boots with spurs. Each member of the mounted unit carries a special 3-meter-long bamboo cavalry lance, decorated by a red and white pennant. A sheathed cavalry sabre is carried in in the side of the saddle of each trooper.

While common perception is that the PBG mainly have ceremonial duties such as that of being the President’s escort during Republic Day parade, the fact is that the members of the PBG are highly trained. Handpicked by the President’s Secretariat from mainstream armored regiments, the unit assigns a task force regularly for Siachen and UN peace keeping operations. Moreover, the cavalry members are trained combat parachutists – thus decorating the PBG uniform with a scarlet Para Wings badge that signifies that these troopers are a part of the airborne battalion of the India Army.

Since their foundation, the President’s Guard has won many battle honors. In 1811, they won their first battle honor ‘Java’. In 1824, they sailed over Kalla Pani for the first Burmese War and earned the second battle honour ‘Ava’. The battle of Maharajapore in 1843 won them their third battle honor. Consequently, the PBG fought in the main battles of the First Sikh War and earned four battle honours. Post-independence, the PBG served the country in the 1962 Indo-China war and the 1965 Indo-Pak war.

The PBG, one of the senior most regiments of the Indian Army, is a unique unit. While the uniform is befitting of its traditional and ceremonial role, the badges that augment those threads, tell the story of its impressive history and victories.

How have they managed to maintain their customs for more than 2 centuries? A National Geographic exclusive captures the PBG’s untold story. The documentary series showcases the discipline that goes into making the ceremonial protectors of the supreme commander of the Indian Armed Forces.

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The National Geographic exclusive is a landmark in television and is being celebrated by the #untoldstory contest. The contest will give 5 lucky winners an exclusive pass to the pre-screening of the documentary with the Hon’ble President of India at the Rashtrapati Bhavan. You can also nominate someone you think deserves to be a part of the screening. Follow #UntoldStory on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram to participate.

This article was produced by Scroll marketing team on behalf of National Geographic and not by the Scroll editorial team.